


Helpful Shadows

by ChloeWinchester



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-The Hounds of Baskerville, Sherlock wank, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWinchester/pseuds/ChloeWinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John needs help, John needs saving, and someone rather unlikely comes to his rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jim being there is based on the video posted to John's blog post-Hounds~

Pull the trigger.

Just do it.

Useless sod, can’t even kill yourself properly.

What’s the matter with you?

You’re so miserable, you’re so defective and useless, why can’t you do this one simple thing?

Pull the goddamn trigger and end this.

John Watson’s hand shook on the pistol pressed against his temple, trembling absolutely everywhere and fighting tears.

He wasn’t needed. Sherlock didn’t need him, not for anything important. Nothing but his experiments and scare tactics…so many things not necessary that showed him what he was truly worth and he was so tired of it.

Pull the goddamn trigger.

End this charade that Sherlock Holmes needs you.

Kill yourself before he comes back.

~*~

Had been wandering through 221B with his camera, now searching for dear Dr. Watson’s laptop to upload his little video it  give both men such a fright. How fun that would be.

He was fresh from The Ice Man’s cell, bruised and malnourished and a bit feverish, which is likely what sparked this little idea. Delirious, dehydrated nonsense that looked clever by chance.

In looking for Dr. Watson’s computer, he heard a sound.

A small, shushed chain of whimpers. Crying. Someone was crying.

He edged closer to the sound, setting the camera on the stairs and climbing them one by one.

That…sounded like John. He frowned, peering into the room through the door left ajar in such assured privacy.

Then he saw the gun.

~*~

John had shifted the barrel from his temple to under his jaw to in his mouth and back again. It was so cold pressed against his skin, knowing a single hot piece of metal could tear his head open. Put the light out. Take the pain away. Keep him from shaking at nights and crying in the morning and sitting in laboratories pale and sweating and sick from a sick sort of joke his supposed ‘best friend’ played on him for the sake of a case.

That hadn’t been the last nail in his coffin. The tremors and slight limp that came with it was. And he had come back here ahead of Sherlock in a cab just to have time to himself for awhile and looking at himself in the mirror, at the terrible, twisted scar on his shoulder, abused body riddled with them, just all over.

He was nothing more than an ugly man turning gray and being in everyone’s way.

Sherlock didn’t need him, not with all his games to play. And Moriarty would surely be more interesting than he was anyway good god their flirting was annoying or maybe Sherlock could be with The Woman instead, maybe that would make him happy or maybe he could find someone else to do tests on-

He hiccupped.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered now, just…just ending this mattered.

He shut his eyes, pressed the gun directly against his temple-

Suddenly a soft hand pressed over his eyes, another tightly grabbing his wrist and forcing it downward  and away from him.

“Let go.” The voice was soft, gentle and lilting, one he knew.

His blood ran cold but…but he stopped him. Why?

“Drop it. Drop it now,” Jim ordered.

John trembled, shaking his head. “I can’t. I can’t, please.” he shivered, tears welling in his eyes, lips quivering. .

“Yes, you can, Dr. Watson, just let go. You don’t want to do this, you don’t. Think. And breathe. Breathe.”

John took several shaky breaths, and Jim felt wetness against his palm.

It took years, it seemed, but the gun finally fell to the ground and Jim wrapped his other arm around his waist, hugging him. “Shh, shh…” He whispered.

John fell back against him, legs wobbly and threatening to give out.

Jim held him fast, and it was the most surreal moment in either of their lives.

Joh’s back was pressed against his chest, one of Jim’s hands so delicately placed on John’s eyes so he could stay hidden, so he could cry without all that shame in the safety of the dark where Jim was helping him hide. Jim, still bruised and thirsty and starved and for some reason felt it was still his responsibility to hold him and keep that gun away from him.

He needed to hold him. To protect him. But why was  _he_  doing it? Where was Sherlock?

“John…Dr. Watson… why?”

John whimpered, shaking his head.

“Who am I going to tell?”

“London?” He choked.

“Why would I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Jim paused. “Because humiliating you isn’t fun for me. Embarrassing you doesn’t bring me any sort of pleasure-”

“Gottler Gear,” John spat. Jim winced.

“That was for-”

“Sherlock?” He asked brokenly, giving that little angry smirk of his. “Everything is, isn’t it?”

“Dr. Watson-”

“I don’t matter!” He yelled. “I don’t matter and no one would care. Sherlock doesn’t need me and no one, no one would even care…what’s another dead soldier? I’m not important. I’m nothing.”

Jim shook his head. “Dr. Watson, Captain, you’re the greatest man I’ve ever seen. I’ve spent my life looking at so many ugly, filthy people filled with such awful things you’d think their insides were rotted with maggots instead of blood and organs. People get so testy when you pop them open to find out…” He was rambling, off topic. Focus now, Jimmy… “But you? You’re nothing like that. You’re not like them, not in the way you think you are. Sherlock calls you ordinary, but I don’t think that’s true. It can’t be true.”

“Why not?” He sniffled.

“You’re much too kind. Loyal, impossibly brave and wise and stronger than I ever could be.  You’re everything good in this bleak and nasty world, Johnny boy,” he admitted in a soft, nearly afraid voice.

John froze. “You. You think all that? About me? You?”

Jim nodded, cheek against John’s head so he could feel it. “Of course I do. I don’t understand how everyone else doesn’t. You’re a doctor, John. You help people. You’ve saved lives and people need you. You’re important-”

“You tried to kill me!”

“No.”

“No?”

“Laser pointers,” he whispered. “Bomb wasn’t live, just blinked a lot and Sherlock brought a fake gun it was all fake. A trick.”

John snorted, shaking his head. “Joke’s on me for thinking it was real, I guess. God, I’m so stupid!”

“No! No, John, you’re not.”

“Why didn’t Sherlock tell me the gun was fake?” He whispered.

“I don’t know,” Jim said back. “I…I truly don’t know.”

“Why are my emotions so amusing? Why is it so fascinating to watch me get scared?” He breathed, legs dipping a little. Jim still held him up. John wondered a moment how much strength there was in these arms.

“It’s not, John. I take no pleasure in humiliating you, remember?”

“Why are you doing this?” He croaked. “Why are…are you, the most dangerous fucking criminal in London doing this right now?”

“Because I care if something bad happens to you. I do.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m not in the habit of killing saints.”

“I’m not a saint.”

“No, but you’re the closest I’ve ever seen. So until someone surpasses that bar, you’re a saint.”

John shivered, more tears falling. “Moriarty…I can’t. I can’t do this, don’t make me-”

“Shh…you can. I know you can. God, if I can, so can you.”

John frowned. “If ‘you can’?”

“Can’t possibly think being the way I am is any fun, can you?” He whispered. John sniffed. “I find a reason to stay.”

“Like Sherlock?”

“No, not Sherlock. The game Sherlock provides. That’s all.”

“Then,” John swallowed, voice none the steadier. “What happens when this thing with Sherlock is done?”

Jim hesitated. “Don’t worry about me, Dr. Watson. Worry about you, okay?” He whispered, deflecting entirely. That wasn’t what John needed to worry about right now. John needed to worry about John.

“Jim…” John breathed. Jim smiled a little. His name. John said his name. And it sounded nice. “Jim, I…”

John started to turn, and Jim took his hand away so he could look at him. His eyes were broken, sad and still threatening to overflow.

His brow pinched and suddenly he was looking at his bruises, how thin his face was. He looked nothing like he had at the pool. He didn’t look like the suave, soft and devilishly handsome man he had there.  His hair was longer, pale, skin taut  around his jaw, eyes sunk and tired. Dehydration. Malnutrition. And the bruises…

“Where’ve you been?” He asked quietly. Jim shook his head.

“Nowhere important,” he swore. His other hand was still on his waist, steady and careful. “Where’s Sherlock?” He asked quietly.

John was still worried, but he let it go for the moment. “Baskerville, still. I went home ahead of him, to…” he swallowed, swaying a bit. Jim held him.

“I think you need to sleep,” Jim advised, walking him closer to the bed. John was nodding, climbing in without a fuss. Jim picked up the gun on the floor, wondering if he should throw it out the window or not.

Instead, he flushed the bullets inside the magazine and the one popped from the chamber down the toilet and set the gun back in John’s desk.

John was turned away from him, fidgeting, embarrassed. “I’m not a child,” he said gruffly. “I can, I…” He got so angry when he was ashamed.

Jim sat on the bed beside him, sinking onto it like he suddenly weighed an extra seventy five pounds.

A wave of exhaustion passed over his features as his hand gently went to John’s shoulder. John saw the whole thing, and again he found himself being worried for this incredibly dangerous criminal.

“John,” his soft, gentle lilt ghosted through the dimly lit room and sent shivers down John’s spine. “Just sleep.”

“Will you stay?” John found himself saying before he could even think to stop himself. Jim nodded.

“I’ll stay.”

“You…could sleep too. If you wanted,” John muttered. Jim looked over at him, smiling just barely.

“Alright.”

John felt the bed dip as Jim laid down beside him, felt his soft breath on the back of his neck. He shivered again, and Jim pulled the blanket over his shoulder. “I’ll be here,” he promised

“Okay.”

John drifted off with Jim pressed at his back, an arm around his waist. He felt grounded, he felt safer, he felt content to be where he was with him. He felt safer than he had in months. And it was with a man who’d likely killed more people than John had even met.  

Jim was warm. He was gentle and he felt good to have beside him. And with the adrenaline seeping from his body and leaving a tinge of cold sweat in its wake he had to sleep. He shut his eyes, his dogtags feeling like giant hot weights against his chest, and drifted off with Jim close by.

It was the best sleep he’d had in years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jim’s relationship grows, and the tables start to turn.

Jim had left the next morning.

He woke John first, gently squeezing his shoulder and petting his hair back once to tell him so.

“But I’ll be back,” he promised. “To check on you. It’ll be our secret, alright?”

John nodded sleepily. “I won’t say anything,” he assured.

Jim smiled and stood, gone just as quickly as he came.

Sherlock came back later that day and John carried on as normal. Nothing interesting happened, no date or anything just a quiet night in and Sherlock was too wrapped up in the current problem to notice if he was lying or not.

He followed Sherlock through his cases, played best friend like he was supposed to, like Sherlock needed him to, but he still waited. Chased criminals, marveled at Sherlock’s mind, went too long without eating and sleeping and the danger was incredible of course.

But every night, or whenever he could sleep he wondered when Jim would come back. Jim wasn’t a liar, a criminal mastermind sure, but he wasn’t a liar. He knew he’d come eventually and check on him just like he said.

He didn’t have to for long.

~*~

He hadn’t meant to scare the doctor while he was shaving, it was just bad timing. Bad timing that left John with a cut on his jaw that Jim was currently helping him nurse but it was an accident.

“I’m really sorry I startled you,” Jim said softly, holding the handkerchief he’d taken from his pocket that likely cost more than John’s entire outfit to the cut.

“No, it’s okay, it’s fine,” John assured, unused to this and certainly surprised that Jim was being so open about his apology. It was in that same cool and quiet voice of his that made goosebumps creep up his arms, but it was still sincere.

Jim smiled just a little.

“Been busy, Captain?” He asked.

_“Say it again,”_   John thought.  _“Say Captain again just like that, say it again it sounds so…”_

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Yeah, it’s been pretty busy. That’s not you, is it?”

“No, no. Not all of them, anyway.” John could tell from the smirk on the Irishman’s lips that he wasn’t going to tell him which ones, but it was still immensely amusing to him. John was smiling too.

Jim peeled back the handkerchief, nodding in satisfaction that the bleeding had stopped. “How have your…thoughts been?” He ventured. John swallowed and gave a nod.

“Bit better.”

Jim paused and looked at him. “Do you think going to see Ella again might help?” He asked very gently. John shook his head, unsurprised that Jim knew his therapist’s first name.

“I’d never be able to do that. Sherlock would know and this isn’t something I want him poking around in.” Jim nodded.

“I understand, I understand,” he assured. “I’ll just have to play therapist instead,” he smirked.

John smiled back. “I think I’d like that.”

They talked for hours. John ended up calling into work while Sherlock was visiting Mycroft and dealing with some of his personal endeavors, cleaning up the plane fiasco, which John couldn’t help but congratulate Jim on, brilliant work wheedling that out of him via Irene.

“Not hard when a woman so desperate to keep all of her secrets gets them all found out in one go by little ol’ me,” Jim smirked.

“You figured out her passcode?” John balked. Jim chuckled.

“Oh god yeah, you say Sherlock’s name and her body chemistry changes. It was obvious,” he smiled. John looked at him a moment, a little taken aback at his wording. He and Sherlock really were alike.

God he was sitting in his bedroom with James Moriarty talking about the massive crimes he’d committed as if they were discussing the weather.

It was…nice.

When John spoke Jim held onto every word and listened so intently to him speak, let him do most of the talking -which didn’t make speaking while being drunk on the man’s cologne all the easier- and it was…nice. To be listened to like this. And not only that, to be understood and enjoyed.

He was sad to see him go.

“Don’t want the Virgin finding me here, do we?” He said softly, standing and placing a gentle hand on John’s shoulder, soft fingers briefly brushing against his neck.

“Oh, you’re-” John moved to give him his handkerchief back. Jim shook his head.

“Keep it, Johnny boy,” he smiled. And then he was gone.

~*~

The next time Jim came to check on him the criminal wasn’t so cheerful.

It was late, two in the morning late, and he’d slipped into the house and up the stairs while Sherlock slept just a few hundred yards away.

John didn’t know how Jim knew he was still awake, but he did, even if there was something off about him.

“Hello,” John said, sitting up in bed and staring at the dark figure in the doorway.

Jim said nothing back. He walked slowly toward the bed and sat at the end, staring at him in the dim room. His eyes were wide open, lips pursed, irises black. It was frightening, unnerving.

“J-Jim?” He stammered. What if he’d become a nuisance? What if he was in the way, what if he knew too much and Jim decided it wasn’t worth keeping him alive anymore, what if-?

“Sorry.” Jim’s voice was sharp, cold and hard but John didn’t think it was intentional. That didn’t make the unease in his gut lighten any. He swallowed.

“Are…you okay?” He asked softly. Jim nodded.

“Yes.” He spat. John flinched.

“You don’t look okay. You…you look like you’re going to kill me.”

Jim snorted. “Oh, Johnny, if I wanted to kill you you’d be dead already. Wouldn’t have even known I was here…” His voice was soft and sing-songy. John’s stomach felt cold, like a brick in his stomach.

“Jim…Jim, I’m…I’m really afraid of you right now. And I don’t want to be. I really don’t. Please,” he whispered, staring at him. “You’re not- I know you’re not as bad as you want people to think you are. And I know this, this is a moodswing or something but…I can’t take that, I can’t. I thought you wanted to help me.” He was goading him, coercing him, trying to make him see and understand.

Jim paused, blinking at him. “I…I do, want to help you, John. Don’t. Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you.” He moved closer, still with that wild look on his face but his tone had changed. John winced just a little. Jim lowered his hand. “Johnny…I’m going to come back tomorrow. And when I do, I’ll be better suited to care for you, alright? I’m no good today. I’m a rubbish demon today.”

“You’re not,” John forced past the fear in his throat. “You’re not a demon, Jim. Just a bad day. I have bad days. I can wait til tomorrow. You promise you’ll be here tomorrow? I like it when you’re here. I like talking to you.”

Jim cocked his head. “You do?”

John nodded.  “Yeah. I…I like you, Jim. You’re my friend.”

Jim sneered. “You’re just saying that because you’re scared,” he snarled. John was breathing heavily, his hands clenched. He was scared. he was very, very scared but that didn’t mean he didn’t like Jim. He did like Jim, he liked him a lot. Even if he did behave like this sometimes.

The criminal could feel John’s fear. He could almost taste it it was so palpable. But unlike with everyone else, he didn’t relish in that. He stood, face contemplative and less intense than before.

“Bye, Johnny boy,” he murmured and left without another word.

~*~

John didn’t sleep well the rest of that night. He was still tired, constantly making tea the next day to keep himself up. He was muddled and groggy and Sherlock eventually gave up trying to get him to be useful and left, telling him to get some sleep or something.

John was slumped in his chair, dozing, when Jim came in.

He smelled his cologne first, and it almost brought him out of the sleepy stupor but it didn’t look like he was getting out of that any time soon.

Jim’s figure loomed over him, but he wasn’t menacing like he was last night.

Well suited arms lifted him out of the chair and moved him to the couch where he was tucked in properly.

“There,” he vaguely heard Jim say while he tucked a blanket around him. “I’m…I’m really sorry, John. For last night. I get these…moods, and they’re not good. They’re never good. Such dark, sticky and bad feelings. Reminds me of tar.”

“‘S alright,” he muttered, peeking up at him.

Jim brushed his fingers against the dark bags under John’s eyes, just a brush there. John cooed. Jim smiled a little. “Right,” he breathed. “Are you alright? Not too frightened of me, are you?”

John shook his head. “Jus’ a hurt man, Jim. Not a demon or a devil. Jus’ a man who needs someone to talk to too. ‘N’ I’m here. Promise. “

Jim softened, kneeling to look at him. “You mean that. Don’t you, John?” He asked. John nodded.

“W’th everything I have.”

Jim pressed his lips against John’s forehead.

They were so soft, John found himself marveling. It shouldn’t be that big of a surprise, considering the man’s wealth and how soft his hands were but it was still…shocking. His lips were pillowy silk against his lined forehead, tender. Sherlock would have never guessed the man was capable of such a thing.

“Are you alright?” Jim repeated. “Thoughts not too nasty?”

John shook his head. “Mno. Come back sooner.”

Jim smiled and kissed his head again. “I will, John. I promise.”

Soft pale fingers slid through John’s hair and Jim was gone again, just as fast as he’d come.

~*~

It continued like that.

Jim came in late at night or early in the morning and sometimes they would talk for hours. Sometimes John would just, hug Jim so tight because he looked like he needed it and Jim would hug back just as hard. Sometimes Jim roused him from nightmares and let him shake against him until he was ready to sleep again. Sometimes Jim would sit beside John and hold his hand without saying a word and get up and leave when he simply knew John was okay.

It became habit that when Jim left he kissed John’s forehead. Just a soft brush of lips that turned into a cheek peck, then a longer kiss, then Jim was lingering at the corner of his mouth.

John didn’t mind, for some reason.

He didn’t mind Jim’s kisses or affections, he didn’t mind the goose chases he put Sherlock on. He did mind the innocent people that got hurt during a lot of their games but…for some reason it wasn’t a deal breaker.

After Jim gave him a look into what he’d been through, that he’d come to know human hands as instruments of pain, mouths as wicked devices used to hurt, everyone foul and horrible and let terrible things happen to little boys in the dark without care and no god around would save him from it John couldn’t hold his deeds or his outlook against him. He didn’t condone it, not a bit, but he understood it.

James Moriarty was not the monster Sherlock thought he was. Or what the rest of the world might think he was.

Down at the core of things, Jim was lost. he was grabbing and grasping for something to hold onto, something good and worth it and he’d never found it. He found engaging things instead, ways to get back at the world for what it did to him and John…John understood that.

Jim helped John get through his pain, get through his thoughts, focus on something else to give him the strength to understand Sherlock’s comments weren’t meant to be cruel, the way he conducted himself wasn’t supposed to drain John so much. And it worked.

He thought Jim was getting better too. Truly, he did. He swore that Jim was getting better too, as much as he was smiling and laughing and at ease around John he thought everything was going to be alright.

Hell, they got through the Richard Brook thing with winks at the end and a talk beforehand that things were going to get rough and Jim didn’t know where it was going to end. But John didn’t think…He never would have guessed…

He never thought of Bart’s roof.

~*~

He knew something was wrong when Jim didn’t call him like he said he would. They’d taken to texting each other in the mornings and evenings just to check in. Jim hadn’t done that today. And he wasn’t answering John when he tried communicating.

Things had been…so strange lately and gauging Jim’s state of mind had been impossible. His deflections, his immediate questions and focus on John making it impossible to do so and now it, it was terrifying.

He wasn’t picking up. Sherlock was still at the hospital when he left to ‘check on Mrs. Hudson’ he knew she was alright. Everything was fine, why had they… Was it Jim or Sherlock that did it? Who was trying to keep him from Barts and why?

He ran up the stairs. Launched himself from the cab and ran up the stairs. Sherlock wasn’t in the room he’d left him in but that didn’t matter, he needed to get to the roof now.

He got the text halfway up.

Goodbye, Johnny Boy. -J Moriarty xx

“No. No, god, no…”

He kept running, fast as he could and burst through the door just as the gun went into Jim’s mouth.

“No!”

“John, stop, what are you doing?!” Sherlock bellowed.

John put a hand over Jim’s eyes, the other holding tight to his wrist and pulling it away, pointing the gun at the ground.

He was gasping. Jim was shaking.

“Let it go,” John said quietly, staring at the back of Jim’s head. “Drop it. Drop the gun, Jim.”

“I can’t….”

“John, what the hell-”

John talked over him. “Yes you can. Yes you can, Jim, let it go.”

“I can’t take the noise, Johnny. I can’t. I can’t do it anymore, it won’t be quiet.”

“We’ll find a better doctor than me, then. We’ll get you help. I’ll…I’ll devote myself entirely to your care, I will. But you can’t do this,” he whispered. “Come on, Jim, we’re supposed to go out properly, remember?”

“John,” Sherlock breathed, staring at him in such horror. “I don’t understand, you knew? You knew this whole time and you’re…why are you defending him what are you DOING?!”

Again, John ignored him. “Let go. I’m here, Jim. You’re not alone in the dark anymore. I’m here too. I’m here. We’ll get through it together.”

“Promise?” Jim asked in a broken voice, safe behind the darkness of John’s hand.

“I promise,” John swore.

The gun dropped.

John moved his hand.

Jim turned and looked at him, eyes so pained and bright in the gray afternoon. John smiled just a little, encouraging him.

Right in front of the world’s only consulting detective, Jim held John’s face in his hands and kissed him. It was just as soft and tender as it was on his forehead, but this time John could taste him.

Apples, cigarette smoke, leather, gunpowder… He sighed, kissing him back.

They broke apart and John kept his arms around him, laughing a little with him. Jim looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Told you I’d get a live-in one,” he smirked. John knew he was teasing.

“You can’t just- John- The police will be here soon!”

“Tell Lestrade I said tah~”

They turned to leave, John grabbing Jim’s hand in a firm grasp to keep his hand from shaking.

“So, Johnny boy, we’ll likely have to leave the country for awhile, how does Boca sound?”


End file.
